


Fool's Gold

by MisterPseudonymous



Category: Other - Michael Moorcock, The Eternal Champion Sequence
Genre: F/M, Glorified draft, Original Character(s), Probably will have rewrite, Totally WIP, original fanfiction, product of three hours sleep, stuck in my head
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-09
Updated: 2017-06-09
Packaged: 2018-11-11 12:07:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 398
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11148075
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MisterPseudonymous/pseuds/MisterPseudonymous
Summary: The nobles painted their skin lusciously with gold; Pyrica could only afford fool’s gold.





	Fool's Gold

**Author's Note:**

> This has been stuck in my delirious, sleep-deprived mind for hours. I intended to only write a few sentences of a single scene... and then this happened. Likely, I will prob be taking liberties with much of the lore, but whatever. I shall do my best.
> 
> I just really thought it would be nifty to have a story that leaned more toward's the consort rather than the champion.

Colorful pennants snapped in the strong winds, until finally a coil broke, sending the pennant far off into the horizon. Pyrica envied that pennant, for it was surely a nicer feeling than the pain of kneeling on the cold cobblestone. For a moment, anyway. 

The funeral procession slowly made its way down the grand avenue, with the common folk kneeling and bowed over, trying to take up as little space as possible. Pyrica kept her green gaze raised, however, much enjoying the rush gained from disobeying caste laws. Besides the simple truth that the carriages, palanquins, and clothing of the cortege was undeniably breathtaking. The amount of wealth spent on decorating even the most frugal of the Noble Houses carriage pained her to even fathom. 

The nobles painted their skin lusciously with gold; Pyrica could only afford fool’s gold.

The sound of chimes, of delicate little bells stirred her from her thoughts and brought her eyes to the source—a palanquin comprised more of painted glass and crystal than metal. Under the glorious rays of the midday sun, the palanquin sparkled majestically with nary a rival to contend, rainbows shifting and swirling on the ground with every movement made by the attendants. Chimes dangled precariously from the window, covered only by a semi-translucent curtain. All the while, Pyrica wondered if the palanquin was the most beautiful or most ostentatious construct she has witnessed.

A dark hand brushed aside the silky veil, mayhaps to peer at the grandiose castle towering over the Bejeweled City, the glory of Oltezan. His face was soft, youthful, unsure—because the nobility had such a luxury. He accented his eyes with deep sapphire maquillage, contrasting dramatically with his obsidian eyes and deep brown skin. 

As if by chance, he looked at her, face impassive with a practiced ease. She did not avert her stare, did not shy away. Pyrica had pride if nothing else, but she felt a stirring, a sense of familiar longing and awful dread.

Because neither one of them ever had a choice.

Their gazes broke only when his palanquin traveled beyond eyesight. Yet she could still hear the sound of dainty little bells…

The noble procession traversed the large avenue, heading to the castle. The commoners kept their heads low, save for one. The country mourned the death of the emperor, an emperor with no children but many, many brothers.


End file.
